


Little Touch From Heaven

by sterekismyotp24



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Abusive Neil, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Apologies, Blood and Gore, Developing Relationship, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Harringrove, Hospital, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Injury Recovery, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Panic Attacks, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Stranger Things 3, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Burn Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington, Stranger Things Spoilers, good sibling bonds, injuries
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:28:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24669889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sterekismyotp24/pseuds/sterekismyotp24
Summary: Billy’s recovery is already complicated, Steve Harrington just makes things more difficult.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove & Steve Harrington, Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington, Harringrove - Relationship
Comments: 19
Kudos: 89





	1. Kalon

Three months ago, July 4th, Billy had been half-dead. The events of that night mostly hazy in his mind thanks to an inter-dimensional creature swamping it with its memories and thoughts. 

He remembers seeing something golden brass, star-shaped, wanting to reach for it as he came around at Starcourt but then seeing the engraved writing on it: black, capitalised, familiar. Staring at it as he croaked, 

" _Hopper?"_

And the chief saying something back like _yeah kid, I'm here. Let's get you up._

The way his limp body was being dragged away from that _thing_ as he passed out again. 

Remembers everything before that _too_ clearly — blood-ridden tentacles reaching out for him, the kid with some kind of telekinesis, saving her as she recalled his memories of California and his mother. 

Then in the hospital, coming around from surgery with skin searing under his white gown, burning and itching at the crater in the centre of his chest that the mind flayer opened up. 

His usual sun-kissed skin, sickly pale except the angry scar tissue left from surgeries. Red, purple, blue, dancing around the stitches, stretching like lightening across his body. 

The way his face and neck felt swollen, puffy and round from the drugs that he'd been dosed up on, that had him feeling like his head weighed ten tonnes. 

A seemingly endless sea of x-rays of his fractured ribs and a deflated lung that he'd been shown throughout his stay, the faint signs of improvement as time passed. 

The nurses that had been caring for him around the clock, bathing his skin with a damp wash cloth everyday to soothe the burning and help him with basic hygiene, of course. 

Dwells on the memories of one nurse combing through his hair with her fingers, tying it away behind his head to get it out of his face with a grim look plastered to her face, as she tells him his mullet might not make it through his stay. 

He had refused to let her cut it. 

Recalls Dr Owens from the lab had visited the instant he came around, told him he couldn't breathe to a single soul what happened on July 4th and instead, when people asked, he should tell them he was in a nasty car smash — the same thing the nurses, Neil and Susan already believed. 

And he did comply until Max came bursting her way into his hospital room, a brave look painted on her face, lips curving into a tight smile despite the wetness collected in her eyelashes when she saw him and all the words just fell out of his mouth. 

Susan waited in the corridor, drinking coffee each time she visited, not daring to pass the threshold of the doors to his room. 

Billy talked for too long, probably, about being flayed, about _Neil,_ how sorry he was for being an asshole. Max listened and sat still, offering him small smiles and a light squeeze to his elbow because it was one of the only patches of skin without scars or nasty, infected cuts. 

Billy would not-so subtly beg for her forgiveness every time he saw her, as they shared M&Ms that she haggled Susan for out of the hospital vending machines. 

_I'm sorry,_ he'd tell her _I don't have anyone else but you, Max, and I treat you like shit._

She'd say _it's okay,_ or _shut up._

And he'd choked every time, a flare up of rage seeping into his voice, as he told her, _I'm trying not to be a dick, okay? So just don't say anything, Max. I'm sorry, alright?_

Then there had been days where she'd comforted him after hours of demanding physical therapy that left him swollen and sore. Pressing her fingers to his injury-free elbows and forcing him into hugs (he Billy was a closeted hugger so protested _a lot_ ) where she'd wrapped his head tight against her as he bawled over the lack of progress. 

|°|°|°| 

Before long, three months passed and he's kicked out of hospital, after barely passing physical therapy, discharged _alone._

He can hardly walk, clinging to the crutches hooked around his elbows with all his might as he hobbles to the nearest bus stop. _Bus stop_ because fucking Neil wouldn't even come pick him up. 

It's a tedious hour or so before he gets there since he keeps having to stop for air, head hanging low in shame because his body didn't work like it used to — and probably never would. 

He hangs onto his jacket, the one he requested for Max bring to the hospital for him, a muted grey that washed him out but he'd wanted anyway, because it was one of the thickest he owned and he had been cold for a _long_ time. 

He hid his hospital bracelet that was wrapped around his scarred wrist, tucking it underneath his sleeve because he's not ready to talk about his ' _car crash_ ' to strangers who see the blistering. 

Old Cherry Lane didn't look much different after three months, aside from the browning cherry blossom stuck to the ground that came with fall. 

His Camaro is parked straight outside his house, against the pavement. The cool blue metal reflecting the dark clouds above him. Max didn't neglect to tell him in hospital how some guys had shown up from his 'insurance company' to fix his car and by the looks of it, he guesses they gave it some kind of free detailing too. 

Clambering his way into the house, he closes the door carefully behind him. The house is quiet, as it usual was when everyone was home. No sound except the clock ticking and the tv playing in the living room. 

He sees his car keys sat on the shoe cabinet, where he toes off his boots and puts them in. The keys are cool when he scoops them into his pocket, the metal chilling the tunnels of skin on his hands. 

Max is the first to greet him, bolting her way down the corridor with a massive shit-eating grin on her face. She prods his elbow, "hey. I'm glad you're home." 

Half-heartedly, he messes with her hair, it frizzing up instantly like a red mane. There's an ease between the two of them now, shared trauma he thinks, that actually helped them to get along better. She tugs him into a hug, despite his huffs of protest as he wraps one arm (and clutch) around her. 

Neil treads his way into the corridor at the commotion, eyes narrowing at Billy as they separate. He looks a little older than Billy remembers, more wrinkles over his forehead and around his eyes, his moustache greying at the ends. 

He pulls his crutches a little tighter to his body, hunching, to escape his eye line. 

"Maxine, why don't you go help your mother prepare tea?" Neil says, in a voice dangerously low. 

Her mouth falls open in protest, closes again when Billy eyes her, a look of warning falling across his face. 

He didn't know how Neil was going to react to everything, considering the man hadn't even had the balls to show up at the hospital once. 

She huffs, disappearing into the kitchen to help Susan chop vegetables and prepare their tea. 

They both watch her go, Neil waiting until she's out of sight to cram Billy against the wall with a hard shove to his chest that makes Billy swallows for air. 

In any normal circumstance it would have barely been a nudge to him, but his chest isn't the same anymore — _probably never would be_ — his breathing forever shallower than before, so he flies backwards and hits the wall with a thud. 

Yelling down his ears, "what the _hell's_ wrong with you, Billy?" As his hands curl the fabric of Billy's jacket around his throat. 

_A lot,_ he thinks. 

Several fucked up months of being possessed, mind invaded with thoughts that where coming from a _dark_ place. Turns out, almost dying is the least of his problems now. 

_"Huh, Billy?!"_

He gulps, "I'm sorry...c'mon—" 

Plates clatter in the kitchen and doors in the house click open, until Max there, running to Billy's defence, trying to wedge her way between the two of them. 

"He's just got home from the hospital— you're going to hurt him!" 

And behind her, Susan stands in the doorway. Her pale hands urging for her daughter to come back to her, for them to go back to the kitchen and make food like Neil believes women should do — ignorant to everything happening in the hallway. 

"No, mom! You don't get it, Billy's _just_ recovered, he—" 

"It's been _three months,_ Maxine. He's just being a pussy!" 

The grip around his collar tightens, he swallows, disfigured hands rising to his defence by either side of his head. His chest still burns, raging with protest after Neil shoved him. 

"Let him go!" She screams. Throwing tiny, worthless shoves at him before giving up, heaving with a sigh, " _please,_ let go of him, Neil." 

It's a long moment where the air in the room gets think and dense, before Neil lets go. Giving Billy one final shove into the wall for good measure, his wrinkled hand hitting him right along the thick heap of stitches at his chest. 

Billy winces, slumping against the wall breathlessly. His hands shaking as he presses them against his chest, breathing getting heavier and more laboured. There's a dampness spreading across his chest and when he looks down, dark blotches are starting to seep through. It makes his heart hammer in his chest — he _can't_ lose anymore blood. 

They all see the stains starting to develop on his jacket, he puts his hands over them quickly. 

Neil's hissing, "Get out of my sight you little fag, _now._ " 

So Bill does, gladly. 

Finding his way to the bathroom and tugging his jacket off, the movement of his arms only exacerbating the wound's fury. His t-shirt is stained already, he thinks he's probably going to have to toss it as he peels it off, knowing no amount of Susan's fancy washing powders were going to save it. 

It's the first time he'd seen himself in months, as he stands in front of the mirror, stripped down to his bare chest. Traces the lines over his body, red scar tissue at the centre of his chest, furious with some blood seeping out. He sees how much more slender he'd gotten, lost muscle tone that he worked for, for years. 

His face is narrower, deep bags set underneath his eyes and the rest of his skin paler than he could ever recall. 

And then his hair, still scooped back into a bun at the base of his neck from the last time a nurse tied it back. Golden curls tainted by matted clumps that he knew weren't going to come out, no matter how much brushing he did. 

It's a snap decision, as he reaches into the cabinet above the sink, hands finding the scissors he occasionally used to trim his ends. He's not the same Billy he was before, his hair doesn't mean anything — at least that's what he tells himself, sucking in a sharp breath as his lifts the scissors higher. 

But then there's a hand around his — Max's — snatching them away from him. Her eyes wide, " _Jesus,_ Billy. What the hell are you doing—" 

He blinks, staring at his now empty hands, the absence of scissors and wondering _how the fuck did I think I could cut my hair with these shaky things?_

"Hey," she sets the scissors on the sink and pulls his hands into her's, covering them as best as she can with her significantly smaller ones. Her voice is soft like fresh linen, "you're okay. Everything's going to be fine, hear me...? Let me do your hair." 

His head tips down, as he lets Max move him to the side of the bath tub, hands pushing lightly on his shoulders so he sits. 

She undoes the bun carefully, unwinding the hair as much as she could manage amidst the clumps. Then her hands twist his head, stopping him from gaping at himself in the mirror and seeing the state of his hair because she can already feel his skin is already twitching in anticipation. 

A hand pressed on his quivering shoulder, she snips away, saying, "it's going to look good, I promise." 

His hair falls to the floor, matted and discoloured. He tries not to look, not wanting to mourn the loss of his mullet he loved so much, wondering how much hair would be left when she was done. 

"Okay, so— pass me that brush." 

He does, grunting as she runs it through the leftover knots in his hair. She's gentle but he still hates having his hair brushed. 

"It's um...going to need some more work." She stifles a laugh, combing her fingers through the top. It's shorter than before but there's still curls, a trademark one across his forehead, showing off his Californian roots. 

He lets his shoulders drop, listening to the snipping of the scissors and dusting hair off his lap. 

"There it's...it looks good. It'll look even better when you style it and after you've had a shower, you're stinky." 

It's not the squeeze at his shoulder or the hopeful tone in her voice that coax the crack of a smile across his lips, it's the word _stinky._ He thinks he must be pretty _stinky_ after three months worth of body cleaning being nothing but damp cloths. 

"I'll get you some clothes," she wanders off, leaving Billy alone to stare it his reflection once again. His new reflection with freshly trimmed hair awaiting a wash. 

He rolls a wad of tissue paper together, patting it gently against his chest to soak up the gore there, as he puffs out shaky breaths. 

The shower clunks as he turns it on, the same rickety sounds it always used to make as the water sprays into bathtub. He runs the tissue under there, pressing it to his skin once he's wrung it out between his fists. 

Max drops him some clothes on the hamper wordlessly, the door closing behind her with a click as she leaves again. 

He sighs, setting the tissue aside as he peels his joggers and underwear off, hissing when the cold air hits the raw skin on his legs; the areas where they'd taken some chunks out to replace the lack of skin on his chest. It was like some freaky Frankenstein shit had happened to his body. 

The water burns when he gets underneath the spray and he whines, low and quiet, wanting the pain to stop — even just for a minute. It runs off his body, down the drain, polluted with the colour of merlot from his stitches and hair. 

It flattens his curls and they stick to his face, not reaching his cheeks like they used to. He doesn't mind the length, surprisingly. It's long enough that he can still run his hands through it as he rubs shampoo into it, but short enough that he feels a little more exposed. 

It's warm enough in the shower to stop his shivering, lathering soap over himself and carefully washing the stream over his wounds. He thinks it's the warmest he's been in a long time, maybe since he was at the community pool — _pre-flayed_ — sunning himself on duty. 

_God,_ he had never missed Californian heat so much. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took me far too many drafts to write…


	2. Alexithymia

Billy lays low for a week or so, hiding out in his room listening to metal music and spending his time in front of the mirror. 

It takes the best part of the week to get used to his new hair — using more gel on it than ever before as he sweeps his curls to a side part that just reaches his eyebrows. It looks a little blonder than usual, like he'd spent some hours in the sun, _hell,_ he wishes he had but the weather in Hawkins mid-October fucking _sucked._

Neil had been kinda a dick recently. Laughing at his hair because _it's even more faggy than before,_ and telling Billy he deserved worse than having metal wrapped around him — from the 'car crash' that was _all_ his fault, apparently. 

And Billy has amends to make, so he finally ducks out of the house after a long week, Max in tow, as the rain starts to trickle down, knowing Neil wouldn't follow. 

His hands are wrapped around the steering wheel as he drives, fingerless black gloves on them, that he'd become so accustomed to wearing recently. It had been Max actually, who suggested he wears them after she caught him rubbing Susan's foundation into them. Not that he's _embarrassed_ of the scars, he just didn't want the pity from onlookers like the nurses gave him. He's a big boy, he doesn't need anyone's pity.   
Still, Max told him he shouldn't hide them because they show how far he's come since Starcourt. He gets the sentiment but still wears them and sometimes his pine coloured jumper with thumbholes because it serves a dual purpose since he's _always_ cold.

There's rustling beside him that distracts his eyes away from the road in front and he knows exactly what it is.

"Pass us one," he says as he eyes Max and the chewy sweet she pops into her mouth, his favourite flavour —raspberry. 

She holds one out, wickedly grinning at him as the yellow wrapper catches Billy's eyes. He frowns, snagging it from her hand with a grunt because lemon flavour was his _least_ favourite chew. 

"You should buy more of these, you're running out."   
He lifts an eyebrow, "that's 'cause you're eating 'em all." 

_It's not._

The chewy sweets are Billy's piss poor attempt to quit smoking because it's no good for his lungs _or whatever_ , especially since one of them suffered gravely with the shit storm July 4th brought. Plus, smoking is expensive as fuck. 

He tosses the chew into his mouth, sliding the wrapper into the pocket of his leather jacket. Slips his sister some loose change from in there as he pulls his hand out and swings towards a seven-eleven. 

He parks up, cutting the engine off and scooping another chew into his mouth, orange flavoured.  
Max huffs her breath smelling like raspberry. She counts the change in her hand and climbs out, squeezing it into her hand. 

He calls after her, "get M&Ms too!" Just because he's a sucker for chocolate and peanuts, he wouldn't mind either Max comes back with. 

They return to the road, Max heaving as Billy gobbles chews and M&Ms at the same. And he sticks his tongue at her out on purpose, knowing it'll be littered with a gross combination of sweets and saliva. He's developed a disgustingly rich sweet tooth since he stopped smoking and he's more than willing to give into it, even at the expense of Max's queasy stomach.

By the time he pulls over at the Sinclair house though, his sweets are well and truly swallowed, mouth dry and twisted into a thin line.

"Are you ready?"

 _No,_ he thinks. He'd been a complete dickhead to Lucas and the kid deserved an apology — and a hell of a lot more. 

He opens his door, climbing out and biting back a grunt. He's not ready, not sure how he's going to put his feelings into words but he has to. 

The house is well lit by the dim sunset, rain pouring over the front porch gutter. He and Max jog to it, hiding out under there for a moment or two before he finally builds the courage to knock on the door. 

The door swings open, Lucas' mom standing there with a warm grin and pearl earrings hooked from her ears. 

"Hello, mister Hargrove, Max."

Beside him, his little sister has her lips curled into a reassuring smile. Her eyebrows tipping up as she squeezes his elbow, attention falling back to her boyfriend's mom.

"Mrs Sinclair," he brushes the short curls from his face and clears his throat, "we're here for Lucas." 

Her eyes dart to Max, who's looking a little clueless honestly, like she doesn't know quite what to expect herself. "He's playing with his Rubix cube, do you guys want come in?" 

"No, thank you. We're good, Mrs Sinclair."

She closes the door slightly as she yells for Lucas, turning back to them with a smile. "Let me know if you guys need anything, okay?" 

"Thank you," Max chirps. 

Lucas comes to the door a few moments later, shoving the Rubix cube into his pocket and shutting himself out with the two. Narrowing his eyes at Billy mostly, arms folding over one another as he greets them, "uh—what's up?" 

That's when Max elbows Billy in the side, an apologetic look on her face as she catches him on the patched-up skin there. "Billy's got something he wants to say, right, Billy?" 

He sucks in a sharp breath, "Yeah." 

They both wait, small stares aimed directly at Billy but his words are caught in his throat, making weird strangled noises.

He admires the kid, he really does. The way he stands in front of Billy with no fear, even after Billy threw him into a wall by his jacket. How he kicked Billy in the groin that night — which he _definitely_ deserved. 

"If this is some kind of big brother talk, then—"

"It's not." He slips his gloves off, pushing them into his pocket before playing with the reddened folded skin there. Looks heavenward to avoid the matching set of expectant looks from the two younger teens. He's got so much to say and doesn't know where or how to start.

"Oh?" 

_Here goes,_ he thinks.

"I'm here to apologise...about that night at the Byers..." 

It's a start, if anything. Billy knows he's going to have to do a lot more than apologise to make up for his actions.

"Oh." Lucas ties his bandana a little tighter around his head, eyebrows raised. And Billy's not that much of a dick, he's half-offended at the wide eyed gape the kid's trying _so_ hard to hold back. 

Still he continues, "I didn't mean to hurt you," in a soft voice. "I was trying to look out for Max but it was wrong, _really_ wrong of me to—"

"It's cool," Lucas interrupts, " _well—_ it's really _not_ cool. But Max told me about your dad so I kinda get it, you were looking out for her in a weird, totally messed up way."

Beside him, Max avoids him. Refusing to meet her brother's eyes and instead meets Lucas' with a scowl. He nudges her, voice rough through gritted teeth, "oh did she?"

It probes her confession, in a small voice, "I told him about Neil's...opinions and about California." 

_Ah._

California, where Neil had wanted to move them all away from after a nasty divorce between Susan and Max's dad; to give them a fresh start that neither Max nor Billy were happy about. And Max, being more outward with her emotions that Billy, run away to make Neil understand how much she didn't want to move from Cali. Then later, was found by the police at a bus station, trying to make her escape after the resistance towards her new family and new life soon-to-be in Hawkins, all too much to handle. 

"Right," he says woodenly. "It's still _not_ okay, what I did, and it doesn't excuse it. So I'm sorry is, um...what I want to say." 

Lucas locks eyes with Billy, the group falling silent for a moment or two as Lucas' stare is unwavering, until finally, a wonky grin cracks its way onto his face. "We're cool, man." 

Like she'd been holding her breath underwater, Max lets out a huge puff of air and she's suddenly beaming beside him, eyes wildly darting back and forth between her brother and her boyfriend. Her hands clap together, the charm bracelet around her wrist clinking. "So, are we going to the store to get some movies for Halloween?" 

"Hell yeah," Lucas replies, turning to Billy and burying his hands in his pockets. "If that's cool with you?" 

Max and her party had planned a night of movies and snacks for Halloween at Steve's house — because apparently he's friends with a bunch of kids now.   
Billy owes it to them both, so he shrugs. "Yeah. Yeah, it's cool. Just let your mom know where we're going." 

Max agrees, nudging Lucas lightly in the direction of his front door. "We'll wait in the car for you." 

Billy takes his chance then — grunting his way back to the car. His chest was starting to ache from being stood up too long, he needs to sit or lie down, something to take the pressure away. 

"See — that's was fine, right? Hey, can we pick up Dustin and Will too? They'll be pissed if we pick out all the movies without them." 

Billy grunts again, sighing as he finally sits down. _Much better,_ he thinks.

"What about the two other nerds?" 

Max climbs into the back seat and huffs, " _El_ and _Mike_ are hanging out together tonight, they've only got themselves to blame if they hate all the movies." 

Lucas jumps in the car, agreeing that it's their fault if they hate all the films, as he dusts the wetness from the rain off himself. "Sweet ride, dude." 

A curl rises on Billy's lips. His car had always been his pride possession since he picked it up from the garage as a starry-eyed sixteen year old. "Just wait 'til you hear her purr. You want a chew?" 

He starts the engine, revs to give the full effect of his beautiful baby, as he tosses his new bag of fruit chews to them both in the back seat. 

Picking up Dustin and Will is a little more traumatic than Billy anticipates, wanting to ground to swallow him up from the instant he stops at their homes.

Dustin's mother smothers him as he tries to leave the house, smacking kisses all over his cheeks before he can run to Billy's car. Then he won't shut up from there onwards about how Billy's new hair is _totally tubular_ — Lucas agrees — and how his scars are _cool_ and _totally badass_. Billy appreciates the sentiment and all, but both features remind him of how weak he was, how weak he _is,_ and Dustin's mom makes him long for the relationship he used to have with his mother.

Needless to say, he snags his sweets back from the little shits before Dustin can even have any and gobbles enough of them himself that he's buzzing a little like they had nicotine in them.

Then, Will adds a little more disaster to the mix, sitting up front, big doe-eyes gawking at Billy and Billy just _knows_ he wants to ask something about what happened, if it was similar to his experience or some shit. And Billy's just _not_ ready for that yet. So he gives him his best off-putting scowl and little Byers doesn't say a word the entire journey. Billy's glad.

|°|°|°|

It's almost closing time at Family Video, the sky darkening outside as Steve chomps away on cheese puffs — _Keith's_ cheese puffs — Robin balancing VHS tapes on the counter beside him.  
Evenings were generally dead unless there was some hot new movie release that everyone wanted, but even then footfall was pretty scarce. 

So they definitely notice the hoard of teeny boppers that flood in with ten minutes before closing time and Steve groans, recognising each one of them. He just _knows_ he's going to be late home.

Henderson is the first one to comment, leaning over the counter and carefully avoiding Robin's tape tower, as he says, "gross. Dude, _geez—_ you smell worse than Keith's cheesy feet!"

Brushing cheesy dust crumbs from his fingers onto his jeans, Steve scowls. His jeans become tainted a little orange he's a free man in ten minutes time — he'll be throwing them in the wash when he gets home.

"Whatever, Henderson, I _know_ you have wet dreams about cheese puffs." 

"Asshole," Dustin quips, showing off his pearls. 

Will and Lucas find their way to the counter, both of their noses scrunched at the smell and it sets off an explosion of arguments over whether cheese puffs should be banned and then what films they're going to loan on Steve's membership card, since the only perk of his job is free movie rentals and they're too young to rent themselves. 

Robin stacks her tenth tape on the pile, winking at Steve because she just beat his stacking record, that took him weeks to achieve and she's done it within a matter of minutes without her tower toppling over. 

A final teeny bopper rolls in, fiery red hair bouncing around in time with her stomps, followed by a larger, much less pubescent figure. 

And then Robin's pile tumbles to the floor, the sound of clattering plastic cases and all her hard-work ruined hanging thick in the air. All because Steve dropped his _damned_ cheese puffs over her. 

"Steveeee..."

He doesn't care though, not really, because _Billy Hargrove_ is the one who trudged in behind Max. 

Billy who Steve hadn't seen since July 4th, whose vintage car he rammed the todfthr into.

Billy who was assumed dead by all of them, left to be found by Hopper, mangled and barely alive. 

Billy who's standing right there, after three months in hospital with a slight hunch until he leans back against the shelves, a displeased look taking shape on his face.

"Nice hair, Hargrove." Robin compliments, shoving her collapsed pile aside and pressing her elbows to the counter, hands tucked underneath her chin. She's a lesbian, not blind and Billy's a whole new level of hot with short hair. "What brings you here with four of Steve's children, hm?" 

Steve hisses under his breath, "they're _not_ my children..." and clears his throat. 

Billy is both nothing and exactly like his old self that Steve remembers.

His chain dangling around his neck, golden pendant twinkling in the dull light, and his classic spike earring hooked in his left ear, he looks like a replica of old Billy; but the mullet's gone and his hair is combed over into beachy twirls that are barely long enough to reach the slit in his eyebrow that had formed over the last year. And he's wearing his classic leather jacket and mid-wash jeans but tucked into them is an ivory jumper with cable stitch knitting, that's just so _not_ Billy.

"The brats wanted to rent some movies for Halloween." 

Robin smirks, "and you're their new designated driver now Steve's here all the time, right?" She turns to Steve, elbows him hard in the side and he forgets all about the jumper, rubbing the skin there with a pout. "I think you've just lost all your cool points to Hargrove." 

Steve scoffs. If the kids ranked him, he would— _by far_ —win all of the cool points. He's certain of it. 

"Steve's got some competition!" Lucas chimes in agreement, him and Robin fist bumping each other because they're _totally_ on the same wavelength as each other. 

Steve won't lose cool points to Hargrove, _ever._

"Okay, will you assholes just go and pick your movies for Christ's sake?" 

The boys are all laughing and beside him, Robin too is swaying, her cackle filling the room. He shoots her a grave look, as she hops up from her stool and makes her way around to the other side of the counter. 

"I'll help you guys, I have _the_ best taste in movies. Keith told me so." 

Steve watches the small hoard walk away to the other side of the store, where the most trashy nerd movies belonged, all of them but Max who's standing with her arms folded beside her brother.

"Max, go pick some movies with your friends." 

She doesn't move, eyeing Steve and her brother equally, face screwing up.

Billy warns, " _Max._ " 

They weren't going to kill each other, at least Steve hopes not.

Her arms drop, hands twisting around each other like she's trying to figure out how to do a yoga pose with them. Then, her mouth falls open in protest, "but if Robin's with them, they don't need my help. She's got the best taste in movies, right?" 

Billy blinks slowly, pushing the flare of frustration that rises in his chest down. He tugs on his chain, slumping some more against the shelves behind him. His chest is starting to burn. "I'll be fine, Max. I brought you and your nerds here to pick out movies, so go pick some movies." 

There's a long moment that passes, where the two siblings are staring at each other, a silent argument until finally, Max huffs and her eyes find Steve's instead. 

"I'll go." She strides away to follow the gang, pausing a metre or so away from Billy with her eyes still fixedly on Steve. Determined, she adds, "hurt  
Billy and I'll hurt you, play nicely, you jerks." 

Humbled, Steve lifts his brows as the little red head disappears out of sight. He was hardly going to hurt Billy, he'd already lost one brutal fight with him. He clears his throat, "Max your guard dog nowadays?" 

Billy bounces his body away from the shelves standing taller but not quite straight; there's still a slight lean to one side and a general pull downwards on his body, as he saunters his way over to the counter. He leans his elbows onto it — hands stretched out and tied together in front of Steve. He smells like laundry soap and vaguely like raspberry too.

"Something like that." 

Steve can't _not_ stare at the telling red, angry lines of inflammation peaking out from underneath the cuffs of his jacket that the mind flayer tore into his hands. It makes Steve's skin breakout in goosebumps, the thought of gangly tentacles that extended towards Billy and made those the marks. He draws his eyes away, forcing himself to look Billy in his big, pale, icy-blue eyes that are staring right back at him.

"When did you two start...getting along?" He asks, curious.

In front of him, Billy shrugs. Reckless abandon making him reach over the counter and pluck a stray cheese puff from Steve's lap, popping it into his mouth somehow threateningly.

Steve pointedly ignores the way Billy eyes drop, to the mess spilt all over the floor behind the counter. He'll tidy it tomorrow and he won't let Billy's judgement sway that.

"Your car fixed then, I guess?" Steve already _knows_ Billy's car is fixed. He overheard Max telling the party a month or so back about the strange men in suits, who were from the lab knocking on her door claiming to Neil that they were from Billy's insurance company, and that they were taking his car to get fixed. He's mostly just asks to fill the silence that hangs thick in the air like smoke.

The thing is, they're not sworn enemies anymore but they're not friends either and Steve doesn't know how to navigate the bumpy road they're travelling down.

Billy grunts, "yeah, no thanks to you." 

_Okay, hostile much._

"C'mon—I stopped your ass from killing Nancy and Jonathan, probably the kids too. You probably should be thanking me." 

He's trying to make amends and be somewhat civil, because apparently the gang had taken a liking to Hargrove or somethin', but Billy never made things easy for Steve.

A moment passes and neither of them speak, the tension making the air stiff until finally, Billy replies. 

"Yeah...thanks, or whatever. It takes a special kind of idiot to pull off what you did." 

Then he pushes away from the counter, head turned towards his sister and her gang as they make their way to them, each with arms full of movies. 

Dustin's the first to offload his pile, letting the tapes spill over the counter in front of Steve and clicking his fingers as he checks his watch. "You've got exactly two minutes and forty-five seconds to ring us all up on your card before you're closing late." 

Robin cackles and finds her way next to Steve, swiping Steve's card through their till, that he extends towards her from out of his back pocket. They scan everyone's movies through together, as quickly as they can manage with Steve's lecturing: _if anyone one of you shitheads tell your parents that I'm the one letting you rent these movies on my card, you're all in big shit, alright?_

The kids won't, Robin knows that but she lets Steve mother them all anyway as she tosses all the tapes into a bag. 

The gang's Halloween plan included invading Steve's home and sitting in his basement watching movies that they were too young for, so he snags the bag away from Robin and buries it under his armpit.

"Great, we're done here. Let's shut this place up, Robin." 

Snorting, Robin makes a move, crunching cheese puffs under her pumps; she didn't care about it though, that was Steve's problem for the morning. She jingles the keys in her pocket — Steve isn't trusted enough by Keith to keep them — and she chimes, "goodbye all of Steve's children!" 

Then the kids are all saying goodbye, a chorus of their voices overlapping one another as they all pile out the door, Billy lastly. He doesn't say goodbye, just gives both of them a flat look before disappearing and letting the door clap behind him. 

"Billy _wasn't_ kinda an asshole for once, right?" 

"Don't overthink it, Harrington. He's probably not changed at all. The same old Billy who kicked your ass that time." 

Steve's not so convinced.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is kinda boring but it’ll get more Harringrove-ish in the next chapter! Also slow build because it’s painful lollll  
> Also I know Billy’s car only has 4 seat butttt not in this fic lmao🤣


	3. Cingulomania

Susan makes her special red pepper risotto for dinner, served with a side of salad and some buttered bread rolls. It's the most uncomfortable dinner in a while as they silently eat together at the table, Max out celebrating Halloween at Harrington's place. 

Billy fills up on bread rolls, leaving half his risotto to push around with his fork, Neil gripes at him for it because Susan spent ages making the risotto and Billy apparently doesn't do shit to help her or anyone in the house, _ever._

He pushes his dish away, drops his fork into it and comments how he washes the pots and took the trash out the other day too. Susan agrees wholeheartedly, telling Neil it was true and Billy does help out sometimes. Still Neil complains, telling Susan that Billy should be thankful he's got a roof under his head still after the way he's behaved in the past. 

Billy shrugs it all off, silently sloping off to the kitchen to wash the pots he collects from the table. 

He's still tender in more places than he'd like to admit, so when Neil stomps into the kitchen and tells him to clean the gutters out _like a man_ , he huffs under his breath and scrubs the plates a little harder. 

Neil gets more pissed later though, when he mentions cleaning the gutters for a second time and Billy argues back that he's too sore still to be climbing up the ladders to do it. Which lands him with a fist being jammed to his face because he's getting _lippy,_ showing _no respect_ for him or Susan and is just _lying_ to avoid chores. 

So Billy's more than happy to duck out of the house for a walk after that, pressing his hands to his face as he plods along, wincing as his cheekbone stings. Sucks on his bottom lip to stop the bleeding at the fresh crack there, scrunches up his face at the metallic taste it brings, because it reminds him of the _mouthfuls_ of blood on July 4th, thanks to the haemorrhaging in his lungs. 

He huffs, glancing around Old Cherry Lane. It's quiet — like last Halloween — because most kids know Cherry Lane is a complete bust in terms of winning candy jackpots. Even Max agreed Cherry Lane _sucked._

The air outside is bitter, the final stages of fall beginning to disappear into a glacial Hawkins winter. Billy hates winter in Hawkins, the unforgiving wind and _snow,_ which Billy had never seen before thanks to the sunny all-year-round weather in Cali. He spits on the floor, trying to escape the taste of his own blood.

He rushes out of the house so quickly that he forgets to bring a jacket with him and the cold starts to bite through his thin white t-shirt. He tucks his arms a little closer around his body, trying to keep himself snug enough to keep walking. He doesn't want to go home, not yet, maybe never...

He finds himself down a street with giant houses, ones that he could only dream of living in, _well—_ at least as far as Hawkins goes anyway. There's dozens of kids wondering around giggling and screaming, knowing they've hit the jackpot with all the rich motherfuckers who lived down there, that would happily give away several handfuls of sweets, maybe even money. 

And it's fine. Everything's _fine._

The kids leave him alone, some maybe even avoid him, seeing the state of his fresh, swelling face and the scars climbing up his arms from his finger tips. Only a couple are daring enough ask him for candy and he stares them down until they're uncomfortable, only to hand them some leftover fruit chews in his back pocket.

His chest starts to ache, a combination of build up anxiety and his lungs begging for him to stop the exercise before one collapses again. So he takes a break, leans against the wall at the end of someone's drive, huffing and panting until his lungs start to complain a little less. 

But then his heart starts to leap in his chest, a burning feeling rising in his throat as some stupid kid jumps out from the bushes near him, a dumb mask over his face coated in fake blood and an amalgamation of shredded skin and hair that are too familiar to Billy, yelling _trick or treat!_ so loudly it hurts his ears. 

He hisses, muttering _Jesus fucking Christ_ under his breath as he watches the kid run away laughing. 

He doesn't think it's funny.

Not because he's miserable but because the kid looked how Billy imagined he did after that night, mangled skin over his chest and arms, with blood soaked in his shirt and stained over his teeth. Sometimes he still imagines the taste of blood in his mouth, has dreams where he wakes up choking in a sea of it. 

Goosebumps break out over his skin, suddenly wanting to go home and get in the shower, let the blood he's thinking about wash off him. The burning hot water run over his face and soothe the fresh markings. Wants to be home alone to have some time without Neil breathing down his neck. Wishes Max was with him right now, to talk to him and tell him to calm down. 

But there's something on his shoulder, squeezing and he doesn't remember anyone else being that close to him other than that dumb kid. 

He thinks about the claw-like teeth wedged in the mind flayer's limbs reaching for him, wanting _to kill—_ his body reacts before he has a choice, fist landing on the jaw of Steve Harrington. 

" _Jesus,_ Billy—" 

Billy doesn't hear him, blindsided with the fear that washes over his entire body, making him distant as he keeps beating down until Steve's on the ground, desperately shaking his head to stop the hits as Billy kneels beside him. Steve's hands bunch up the thin material under his armpits, trying to holding him away and he yells this time— 

"Billy!"

Another hit of hard knuckles come down to his face.

"Fuck, I—" 

Cartilage in his nose crunches.

" _Billy!_ "

And there's a pause, one of Billy's hands falling and sliding to Steve's jaw. Holding there with a look of sheer panic as his other hand climbs down Steve's outstretched elbow. 

He breathes, a sharp suck of that makes his head fuzzy and sees blood — _Steve's_ blood — gushing out from his nose.

A croaky, " _Oh fuck,_ " spills out from Billy's bloodied lips as his hands start to tremble. He's frozen, as he looks down at the damage he'd just done almost entirely unprovoked.

Steve lets out a shaky breath, pulling at the bunched up fabric under Billy's armpits until he's drawn him down against his chest, cradling his head.

There's a chorus of noises escaping Billy's throat, huffs and sobs, choked breaths and bloodied hands pressed against his chest. His body rattles against Steve's, hot, wet patches dampening the grey jacket he had tucked around his body. The thin material of Billy's t-shirt splattered in a combination of both of their blood. 

Steve just holds him there for a while, not so much worried about the blood over his face and nose but about Billy. Billy who's all raging heavy metal and flashy cars. Billy who wears denim and leather and an earring that screams I'm hot and I know it. Billy who's sobbing against Steve's chest, after some form of panic-induced attack drove him to smash up Steve's face _again._

He swipes furiously at his face with his bare, bloody hands and the sleeves of his now forever ruined grey jacket.

"C'mon," he says, taking Billy's elbow to drag him up from the ground with him. Wipes at Billy's face, smudging the blood spilling from his lip until he figures he's not really helping when it only smears his own blood over the other's face. 

They're only a few houses away from Steve's since he'd just nipped out to buy more candy, so he hauls Billy's around over his shoulder and tucks his own around Billy's waist. He's slimmer than Steve imagined he'd feel, especially after seeing him on the basketball court and in the shower room, he's a hell of a lot less intimidating now. 

They pass several houses and then each of the pumpkins that lead up Steve's driveway, each one lit up with a different face of horror that put Max and Billy's pumpkin disaster to shame. Turns out Billy wasn't that great with a knife and Max was just useless at drawing straight lines. The perfect alignment of eyes, teeth and noses makes Billy want to stomp on them all a little because they're too perfect. 

He lets Steve haul him inside and he's hit with the smell of fresh laundry and it makes Billy want to curl up in a corner and cry some more because the smell reminds him of his mother, before she left him, whose hugs always engulfed Billy in that same smell. It’s comforting.

Robin yells something, then they hear thudding as she tumbles into the hallway from the living room and into the hallway, a wide-eyed look spreading across her face. She sees a bloodied Steve holding up a bloodied Billy and swallows, "Okay...so did you two kick each other's asses again?" 

Shaking his head, Steve lets out a groan of frustration. He had no idea how Billy managed to get so roughed up, didn't even ask amidst being pelted in the face by Billy's fists, even now, from the comatose look on his face, he's not sure he'd get any kind of answer if he asked. 

"We didn't beat each other up...Can you _just—_ find a blanket or something? He's freezing." 

" _Freezing,_ " Robin repeats. "You sure you didn't mean bleeding? I think he—both of you need some towels." 

"Robin, please!" 

She hesitates but disappears anyway, returning with the thick, furry, grey blanket they'd been sharing earlier whilst watching movies with the kids. Says, "your nose is dripping everywhere, Steve." As she hand it over. 

The blood on the linoleum floor catches his eyes momentarily and he can't lie that he's a little pissed off. He did just get beaten up and now is bleeding all over the place, over the floor that _he'd_ have to clean later. 

He pulls Billy of him, holding him underneath his arms to keep him steady as he wraps the blanket over his shoulders. 

"Why the hell were you out there in nothing but a t-shirt?" He asks, not expecting an answer. Doesn't get one either. At least not the one he's expecting.  
He wheezes, "where's Max?" 

When Steve sends a look Robin's way, she wordlessly retreats to the living room where the nerd gang are. 

And Steve isn't quite sure what to do when Billy repeats himself too many times under his breath, so he just rubs his hands over his shoulders with the blanket, saying, "it's okay. She's coming," until she's there. 

And she's got a fiery look on her face.

"The hell's wrong with you two?! What happened to playing _nicely?_ " She pulls at her brother's arm, tugging him out of Steve's grasp and pushing him so that he's stood behind her, shoulders hanging heavy. 

Steve sighs, "Max, c'mon. Do you really think I'd pick a fight with Billy after last time? I could've gotten brain injury from that night at the Byers' — I have scars!" 

_Well,_ at least one tiny scar that grazes his hairline, barely visible, but still there nonetheless. 

"I didn't..." Billy starts, trailing off as his eyes find the blood on the floor. "Didn't mean..."

Max squeezes his elbow, a sad smile creeping it's way onto her face. "It's okay, Billy. You're okay. Let's get you cleaned up, okay?" 

Steve watches as Max drags Billy away to the downstairs bathroom, until they're out of sight and he turns to Robin, a flat look on her face.

"I think you should go clean yourself up too, the state of your face. I'll keep the other kids entertained." 

Steve scoffs, watching as Robin goes back into the living room and closes the door behind her.  
He's fine. Mostly. 

The blood on his face is starting to crust, his nose finally not bleeding but he aches — face stings still in knuckle shaped patches — and his head's starting to throb a little but he'll live.

He trails to the bathroom, where Max is wiping at Billy's face with a wet towel rubbing away the drying blood to unveil a mass of colours starting form across his cheek and jaw. 

Then she asks him in a smaller voice than ever, "it was him, wasn't it?"

And Billy's choke tells her everything she needed to know. She pulls him into a hug, her tiny frame wrapping around Billy's bigger, taller but slumped one. The stained towel falls into the sink. 

Steve assumes _him_ is he and nudges his way into the bathroom by pushing the creepy door open wide. Stares at the matching set of knuckle marks over Billy's face and murmurs, "I didn't hurt him, I swear."

"Yeah, it’s fine. He'll be fine," she says determinedly as she lets go of him. "I've gotta make a call, will you watch him?"

"Sure."

Steve's not really sure why he's watching Billy or what for but he sits down on the side of the bathtub and huffs, eyeing Billy as he pulls a clean towel from off the rack and dampens it under the tap. He hands it to Steve wordlessly, sitting beside him on the edge of the tub. 

They don't speak as Steve swipes at his own face until curiosity gets the better of him and he tosses the towel aside after wiping most of the crustiness away. 

"So, uh, who's Max calling?" 

Hargrove shrugs in response, wrapping the blanket tighter around his body and then letting his hands fall and settle into his lap. 

Steve thinks he's lucky to have even got a response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my heart aches for billy, honestly


	4. Noceur

Somehow, Billy ends up staying the night. 

Settles into Steve's guest bedroom, half-comatose as Max tucks him into the thick sheets, forcing Steve with a binding pinky promise to check on her brother, after he insists she sleeps in the living room with the rest of the party, instead of at the foot of the guest bed. 

The thing is Steve doesn't break promises. Won't ever break them — _he promises that_ — but also doesn't have a goddamn death wish. 

He was ninety-nine percent certain that Hargrove hated his guts. He doesn't want to incur any more bruising to his face if Billy sees him creeping into his room in the middle of the night, but he also didn't have much of choice — he _vowed_ to Max that he would.

So when Robin starts to snore next to him in bed, her limbs all stretched out like a starfish until he's confined to one very slender edge of the bed, he takes the opportunity to check on Billy before he tries to smother her.

He pulls on his sweater, the sweater that was too small for him, since he offered Billy the only clean one he could find that was big enough for either one of them. It's not that he's cold or anything, he _really_ wasn't after having the thermostat whacked on full heat all night for Billy, but wearing naked, scar-free arms and chest would seem a little arrogant if he were to wake up. 

He realises as he nudges his way into the guest room with his feet, he's becoming Billy Hargrove's _bitch_. Submitting and bending over backwards for the guy, who had been at his throat since the moment he arrived at Hawkins High last year. 

They weren't even friends but there he was, face mushed against the side of Steve's guest room pillows, hair considerably shorter, but still wild curls spilling everywhere. Sleeping in there like it was his own damned room. 

He's not really sure how long he stands by the door, thinking how different Billy looks now. The look on his face softer with less crinkles of burning rage and not a single tell of trepidation welling in his body as he sprawls across the bed, loose-limbed, with sheets tangled around him. And he's still too, which isn't something Steve's familiar with. 

Billy's always moving. Whether it be puffing cigarette fumes into someone's face, hands dancing around the golden pendant on his neck or strumming anything in sight to the shitty metal music he listened to. Being still just wasn't Billy's thing, like _ever._

And Steve's _enjoying_ it; watching as his back rises and falls, tiny huffs falling from his parted mouth. 

He's less cutthroat, intimidatingly aggressive and macho _male._

Everything Steve just wasn't anymore — thanks to Nancy and her bruising of his ego. 

But then he hears a tiny voice spilling from Billy's mouth, breathy whispers that he can't quite catch until he's stepping closer than he's entirely comfortable with. 

It's incoherent mostly, Steve only really hears the occasional _no,_ or _stop._

Steve's suddenly absorbed in the muffled talking wanting to know what's going on in that crazy, messed-up head of his. 

But then he abruptly shuts up, throwing his body around until he's rolled onto his back, sweater catching on the mattress until his lower torso is half-exposed, as he ties his arms around himself.

Steve sighs, a huff of mimicry falling from Billy's mouth at the same time and that's when Steve decides he's settled again — at least that's what he tells himself, as he turns out of the room soon after closing the door shut behind him. 

Sleepless nights weren't uncommon to Steve, even a year or so after Barb and months after Starcourt, he still didn't sleep until late, if at all, so it's no surprise to him that's up before everyone else.

Robin usually spent most nights around his house, so he was used to the time alone as she slept in the morning. Boy, could that girl sleep. 

This morning though, it's just about light outside and the air is icy — he'd been out for a smoke purely because he was already bored with no tv to watch. The kids were still snoring their asses off in the living room — he'd checked — instead, he brews coffee and makes porridge for himself. 

He's got his usual morning grump on thanks to yet another sleepless night and burns his fingers taking the bowl of porridge from the microwave, cursing loudly as he swings to throw it down onto the breakfast bar.

Cusses, " _Jesus fucking Christ—_ " but not because his fingertips are on fire and starting to feel like rubber.

 _But_ because Billy's stood there at the doorway with a look of amusement plastered on his face. 

"Man...we've gotta stop sneaking up on each other, right?" 

Billy doesn't reply, making his way to the sit at the breakfast bar on the wooden stools beneath it. 

Steve huffs, turning his back to his parents' fancy electric drip coffee maker. "Do you want coffee?" 

"No." 

Trading one addiction for another, wasn't a good idea, Billy knew that. Besides, he hated the bitter taste coffee left in his mouth. 

"Are you...hungry?" 

"I guess." 

Steve pushes his porridge in front of Billy, shoving a spoon into his hand before he can even protest and turns back to the coffee machine. He'll make himself some more porridge later, no biggie. 

"Sleep well?" 

Billy shrugs, scooping a spoonful of porridge into his mouth. Nose crinkling as he gulps it down, setting the spoon in the bowl carefully so it doesn't slide into the pit of warm oatiness. Grunts, "you tryin' to poison me, Harrington?" 

Steve lifts his brows, sitting on the stool beside Billy with his coffee buried between his hands. Tightly huffs with amusement, "what?"

"It's bland as hell." 

Steve actually laughs at that, rising to his feet to fetch the honey. "Some of us try not to get juvenile diabetes from breakfast alone," he says as he watches Billy dump a shitload of the stuff into the bowl. 

Billy's unbothered. Shrugs, "well, what can I say — I've got a sweet tooth." 

Steve snorts, sipping on his coffee, enjoying the warmth of it between his hands. Then they both sit wordlessly, as Billy devours the porridge until the bowl is empty and Steve needs a coffee top up.

Dustin's the first to wake up out of the kids, just as they both finish their porridge. He yawns, helping himself to the banana flavoured milk in Steve's fridge and jumps himself onto the countertop, sitting there until his eyes land on Hargrove, visibly stiffening as the carton of milk lands on the counter with a thud, splashing everywhere. 

"What the hell's _he_ doing here?" Then his eyes widen, "—Steve, your face!"

Billy utters _Jesus_ under his breath because Dustin's squeaky little voice was the most grating thing he's ever heard especially this early in the morning. 

Steve whines, "come on, man—the mess you just made!" He for one, was _not_ cleaning it up. 

Dustin persists, gawking still at the bruised and bloodied crack on the bridge of Steve's nose, the blackened cheekbones, so Steve says, "it's history, Henderson."

Outraged, "history?! Steve, have you seen your face? It's...horrendous!"

He had seen it, it was _bad,_ but he didn't want to make Billy feel any more like a dick than he was clearly already feeling. 

The creases in his forehead flatten, "thanks for that, Dustin. We'll both live, so just...go take some of those breakfast bars from the cupboard to the rest of them lazy assholes for breakfast, okay?" 

Dustin hesitates but dives off the counter anyway, hands delving into the right cupboard because he's around so often nowadays. He eyeballs Billy, on his way out, hands too full to shut the door behind him. 

"I thought Max was like a guard dog for me but you've got a god-damn coyote there, Harrington." 

Steve huffs, "tell me about it," as he gets up to clean the kid's milky mess. 

Robin tumbles into the kitchen and yawns in Steve's face maybe ten minutes later, complaining about her lack of sleep because Steve's bed is like _a stone block,_ and he's quick to grumble about her incessant snoring that suggested otherwise. She raids Steve's fridge when the doorbell rings, leave Steve to trudge his way to the door.

He finds Max stood there, hair looped back into a bun, talking to Joyce Byers, who is looking full of ginger. She hands over a brown paper bag full of goodies that Steve can't quite make out as Max squeezes the bag to her chest. 

He pads his way over to them, scratches at the back of his neck. "Uh, Ms Byers...you here for Will and El?" 

She nods, "can you go get them for me?" Steve has been hoping for the time to force the little shits to tidy up after themselves but it didn't look like it was happening, as usual. 

Finally, Joyce turns to Max. "Tell your brother to use as much as he needs, okay?"

Max smiles in return, "thanks, Ms Byers." 

Steve suddenly wants to know what's in the bag — the bag that Max was gripping so hard, he could hear the crinkling if the paper.

"Hop and I will see you later?" 

"Yeah, we'll be there. Thank you, again." She turns and Steve follows her down the corridor until they part ways. 

He ushers the two kids up and waves them goodbye, as quickly as he can, the curiosity of that bag eating away at him. He watches Joyce's Ford Pinto floor out of his drive and down the street, then slams the front door shut, making his way back to the kitchen where Max and Billy were.

"I didn't know who else to call...because your lips and knuckles are a mess, Billy. So I got Joyce to bring some antiseptic cream for you and I guess she brought some other bits too." Max tells him, sat beside him as she pours the contents of the bag onto the counter.

In the cold, wintery morning light, Steve's convinced he sees a slight smile curving onto Billy's lips as he scoops the tube of cream into his blemished hands.

He grunts, bumping shoulders with Max as he swipes the strip plasters from the counter too. "Thanks, Max." 

She smiles in return, turning around and eyeing Steve carefully as she pushes the bright green pen and note pad from the bag in Billy's direction.

"I'm not writing shit out now," Billy complains, "I'll tell 'em when I get there." 

He runs a hand through his curls, tugging on them until they cover his forehead, just touching his brows. Then he rotates, eyes meeting Steve's as he busies himself by dumping the dirty dishes in the sink, one of Billy's hands waving around the cream at him. "I think you'll want some of this, Harrington." 

|°|°|°|

"So...there's the Byers' house." Steve points at the house as he pulls over to a stop in the driveway. 

Hop's Chevy's sat in the drive along with Joyce's Ford Pinto and Jonathan's crappy Ford Galaxie, there's just enough room for Steve's Beamer to sit there too without too much manoeuvring. He cuts the engine off, eyeing Max carefully in the backseat and she speaks before he starts asking questions.

"Billy and I need to talk to Hop, we might be a while." 

"Okay, well, it's cold in the car so..." 

Max rolls her eyes, climbing out of the car and stalking her way up to the house, Billy following shortly after. 

And Steve decides _fuck it,_ he's totally up for some Hop and Joyce time if Max will let him tag along.

Joyce turns into full-on _mom mode_ the instant they walk into the house, ushering them all to sit in the living room and get comfy on her three-seater sofa — Billy refuses to sit until Max forces him to, with a sharp look in his direction and an icy grip on his scar-free elbow. 

Then they're all being handed cartons of orange juice like they're five year olds at a picnic. Still, Steve's never felt so satisfied as he punctures it open with the straw and sucks it down in almost one mouthful. 

She speaks in a soft voice, that reminds Billy of the squishy bread dough his mother used make a lot when he was a kid. He can practically smell the delicious spices she used to sprinkle around in the dough until their kitchen was like the first sweet inhale in a bakery. Billy's not listening, doesn't actually have a clue what she's saying as he thinks over his mom who _promised_ she'd be back for. He sets his orange juice cartoon on the sofa arm, holding back the burning in his eyes. 

_Fuck Neil and fuck his mom for abandoning him._

Hop joins them, moving Billy's orange juice to the coffee table with a look; a warning, because Billy's left it there the handful of times that he's been here and Hop was always the one to clean up the mess when he occasionally spilt it. 

He mutters, "hell," as he sees the state of the two teenage boys sat in his and Joyce's living room. Chooses to sit opposite them, with his elbows settling on top of his knees as he grunts his way down into the armchair.

Max sets her empty orange juice on the coffee table, tying her hands together like she's about to start watching a movie or some shit. 

And Steve _doesn't_ get it. He doesn't have a single fucking clue what's going on, wonders maybe, if he _should_ have stayed in the car after all because he has no idea why they're sat in the Byers' living room.

"He did this to both of you?" Hop asks, finally, after a moment of deliberation. 

And Billy just grunts, kicking his feet up onto the coffee table, narrowing avoiding his full orange juice carton. 

"No," Max says for them, eyes rolling to the back of her head. She leans back, slumping into the sofa with a sigh. "He did that to Billy and Billy did _that_ to Steve. Don't worry, they've both got antiseptic cream slapped on their faces, thanks to _me_ — and Joyce too." 

And that. That still doesn't really clear things up...

"Okay...okay. So, Steve's here to press charges?"

"Uh— _no._ " Steve lifts his brows. Completely and utterly in the dark, as he flaps his arms around in the air. "Can someone please explain to me what the hell's going on?" 

Hop grimaces, rising to his feet and giving Billy the finger. "You. You come with me and _you—_ " a finger pointed at Steve's face, "—keep your ass right there." 

Steve's searching Joyce's face for a clue as Billy and Hop trail off down the hallway, like he'll suddenly understand, the penny will drop as to why the fuck they're here. Her face doesn't give away a single thing though, and he's just as clueless as before. Cocks his head to the side, poking Max lightly in the shoulder as she yawns. "Explain. Now." 

"Joyce, can I have some more orange juice, please?" 

Ms Byers is up instantly, taking both of their empty cartons away from the table, a warm smile on her lips as she disappears with them. 

Max then, begrudgingly sits up straighter and narrows her eyes at him, voice low, "you can't tell anyone, okay? I mean _anyone,_ not even the party. They can't know." 

"Yeah, okay, I promise or whatever." 

They share a pinky swear and Steve's bound by it once again. 

"Billy's dad, my step-dad, is a dick and he did it." 

"Did that to Billy's face?"

"Yeah," she huffs and sits forwards, leaning her head into her hands. "I asked Joyce a while back when Billy got home from the hospital if we could do something, so Hop's building a case — on Neil." 

"Neil — as in Billy's dad, your step-dad?"

"Yeah." 

Then he leans back way into the depths of the sofa and _oh shit—_ because now everything makes sense. His stomach drops, chills breaking out over his skin.

"Neil beats him up?" 

Max nods, throwing herself to the back of the sofa again with another huff. 

"That..." _explains a lot,_ he thinks. 

The knuckle shaped bruises across his cheek and jaw, that were now multiple shades of blue and purple, along with the split lip that spilt blood over the rest of his face. He wonders how many times Billy's face had looked like that — or worse. 

And he suddenly feels like the biggest dick ever because he thought Billy was just an asshole, not an asshole because of years of childhood trauma from before Starcourt. 

"Jonathan's been taking shots of Billy as evidence, Hop's been asking him questions and telling him to write what happened down but I don't think he's ever been able to do it. Hopper usually writes it all down for him instead." 

"Shit..." Steve drops his head to his hands with a wince. Then, pauses, brows tugged downwards as he lifts his head. "Wait—Byers knows about all this?" 

"Yeah, he does — he hasn't even told Nancy. And _you,_ you can't say a word either, okay? Billy will completely abandon ship if everyone finds out and then Neil wins...plus he'll be hella pissed at me, for telling you all this. So, your mouth stays shut, got it?" 

"Yeah, course." 

He knows breathing a word to anyone could damage the case they're building against Neil and fuck— he wants that case to be as hard as nails, Neil deserved to be locked away forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, Billy breaks my heart, ya know?


	5. Toska

Steve's not sure to expect when he hears hammering on his front door.

His parents resurfaced in early November and left again a week later, his mother shoving money into his hands and promising that they'll call him. _They never call._

Everything's back to normal once they're gone, the house just as hollow and lonesome as always; Steve doesn't mind it so much anymore. Sometimes he feels more lonely when they're home because they don't know shit about their own son. They couldn't even name the goddamn place where he works, at one sit-down dinner during the week, for christ's sake.

Still, Steve sets his pizza slice down in the takeaway box and wipes his hands over his joggers, as he climbs up from the indent he'd worn into the sofa over the last couple of hours. He'd rubbed grease over them for three days straight, after having takeouts.

It's raining outside, torrentially, with entire buckets falling from the sky and landing on the porch with heavy clap sounds. Steve's wondering what the fuck could be so urgent that someone has to bother him during dinner time in this weather — no matter how uncivilised pizza on the sofa was. 

The outside air is icy too, blowing the heavy downpour around some more, stirring it up until it's a full-throttle storm out there and Steve wants his dressing gown to shield himself.

Still, he yanks the door open, cursing at the heavy fisted knocker. Blinks when he sees who's there. 

"Hargrove?" 

Billy's drenched — soaked from his curly hair down to the cuffs on his jeans, that are so waterlogged that the denim's duller than usual. And he's shaking, head hung low as he brushes away the flattened curls that are stuck to his forehead. 

"Your old folks home?" 

Steve shakes his head, hardly getting the time to step aside before Billy's barging his way into the house, droplets trailing behind him. There, behind him, Steve's falling straight into his role of Billy's bitch again, as he shuts the door behind him and follows him to the living room. 

"Hey—c'mon," he decides, one hand on Billy's shoulder. "Let’s go to the bathroom, you're making a mess of the carpet." 

Billy shrugs Steve's hand off him, briefly rebels and shakes himself off like a wet dog on the carpet, before stepping out of the living room and toeing his boots of in the hallway. Then he's gone and Steve's chasing after him, again, until they're both in the bathroom cramped up in each other's personal space. 

The bathroom’s only small, the bigger one being upstairs.

Hargrove's lips are turning a shade of blue that makes Steve's stomach wave but the blueish-purple ring underneath one eye is more threatening to his insides. The veins there gathered and burst, like they've been rammed with the force of a truck and Steve's itching to prod at it, see if it feels as bad as it looks. 

"Here," he gently spins Billy around, eyeing his reflection in the mirror as he peels his wet leather jacket off. It lands on the floor with a soppy thud. 

Beneath the jacket, things are worse.

The scars on his wrists furious, and the softer and paler skin of his elbows tainted with bruises in all kinds of shapes and sizes, notably fingerprints. And there's some blood — caked over the front of Billy's t-shirt — right where a matted tentacle of skin and gore had jammed into his body for the final blow. 

He grits out, " _Don't._ " 

And Steve shuts his mouth — he won't ask. He can already guess who gave him those marks anyway, thanks to Max.

Reluctantly, he reaches for the hem of Billy's t-shirt and decides to talk them through it. Through the awkwardness and the choke-worthy painfulness of Steve underdressing him like he's a giant baby who's helpless.

"You should shower, warm yourself up. I've got clothes you can change into and I can put the fire on. We can watch some movies, I rented shitloads of them ‘cause—" 

He continues, fingers skirting the hem until he plugs the courage up to just do it, and he pulls it up. Manoeuvres Billy's arms around until he can pull the thing to his neck, then finally, over his head mindful of the wounded eye socket he’s sporting.

"Well, ‘cause of my parents…and I...um—" 

The thin fabric falls between them and Billy's suddenly _really_ exposed. And Steve _stares._

Stares at the scars lacing over the centre of his chest like spiderwebs, wide and lengthy, coarse and inflamed. Like something from a horror movie with a fresh coat of blood splattered in there too, clumping around the heart of the wound. He hadn’t seen Billy shirtless since; he’d always been wearing high-neck t-shirts or shirts buttoned almost to his throat. 

And Steve _vomits._

Pushes Hargrove aside to hurl into the toilet bowl, like he'd come down with a sudden bout of food poisoning. He heaves and heaves until his stomach has no contents left, all the pizza he'd eaten over the last three days evicted through his mouth. 

Billy just stands there, hunched, as his arms fold over his chest — _hiding_ — as he waits for Steve to finish. 

He’s never felt like such a dick in his life, as he swipes at his mouth, rough and jagged breaths escaping his lips as he flushes the toilet. Grip onto the ledge of the bathtub as he gets up, to do what he was supposed to be doing — helping Billy. But Billy's pushing him back down with a hand to his shoulder. 

"Take it easy, Harrington." 

Steve argues, "I'm fine. 'M done now—"

A snarl falls from Billy's mouth and then he's flashing his teeth in a wicked grin, aimed down at Steve who's trying desperately to crack a smile back. His hands plant on his hips, his bare naked and scar-free hips. 

"I don't think you are, pretty boy." He says.

Steve’s stomach swoops, as his knees drop to the floor again. He clings to the side of the bowl and winces.

" _Oh geez—_ "

He throws up three times before he can stand again and then, he still holds onto the side of the sink like a lifeline. 

His reflection is clammy, pasty, his skin like a wet fish to look at and Billy, looks like a damn angel in comparison — bruises, blood and all. 

Croaks at the other, "I've got some towels in that cupboard we can use to, uh, clean up." 

Towels from that second nightmare of a night they call Halloween, first being July 4th. Ones that he'd hidden from his parents at the very back of the cupboard because they're were stained — no matter how much scrubbing Steve did at them — and they were expensive as hell to replace. 

Billy passes a towel to Steve firstly after rummaging through the cupboard to find them, getting one for himself secondly. Steve thinks he almost looks pitiful, sharp eyes and lips twisted into a tight line as he hands it over. 

"Didn't think you were going to ralph all over the place like a girl when you saw me, Harrington." 

Steve swipes at his forehead, head shaking and snatches the other towel from Billy’s hands to press against Billy's— _wound._

Something about the bruises, the blood and the scars was unexpected; like Steve was reliving his time spent deep in the tunnels underneath Hawkins, trapped by demodogs and one hell of an ungodly creature in the mall. _It's not Billy though,_ he tells himself. Billy's not that hideous thing, nor to look at, quite annoyingly the opposite, actually.

Steve dabs towel against Billy's chest then holds it there for a while to keep pressure on it, the strumming off Billy's heart steady under his touch and his breathing — _both of their breathing_ — filling the room. 

"You're fucking freezing, man." He utters throatily, unable to stop himself from looking directly up at Billy; his blue lips and teeth that are starting to quiet chatter. 

Hargrove shrugs in response, takes hold of the towel himself and squeezes it tightly against himself. 

Steve back off, demanding that Billy gets a shower. Knocking the shower switch around until water spills from the head, steaming the room up quickly. "It's hotter the further right you turn it," he mentions, leaving. 

Billy watches the door click shut behind Steve, tossing the blood-soaked towel to the floor as he unbuckles his jeans. He slips them off and kicks them away into a ball with his sodden leather jacket and t-shirt. Then finally, tugs off his underwear so he can climb straight into the warm stream of water flowing in the shower. 

He misses warmth…

The room fogs up quickly, the mirror steaming up so that Billy can no longer see himself. The body that make Steve Harrington _sick,_ made him retch until he looked more shit than Billy had seen in a while, since maybe that night at the Byers where he beat him to a pulp. 

He lets the water trail over him, washing away the redness and the sweat that had clung to his skin after his confrontation with Neil. That bastard had been mad as soon as he got home from work, had sniffed Billy out to let off some steam. He made up some bullshit about Billy being disrespectful to Susan — doing nothing to her around the house or some shit — then hit him, multiple times until he was on the floor begging for him to stop, _like a pussy._

He's _so_ exhausted. Sobs under the spray of the water, the sounds hitting the tub beneath covering up his chokes and hiding his pain. 

He gets out the shower drained, smelling like Harrington except the hairspray — like spice and the fancy almond-scented soap that was on the holder in the shower. _Who the fuck even has a holder for soap in the shower anyway?_

Briefly, he dries himself off with a fresh towel that he scrounged from the cupboard, that smells like Harrington's laundry soap. Pulls on the clothes that were folded neatly in a pile for him on top of the washing basket. He guesses Harrington must've dropped them off at some point. 

He thinks about the bundle of Steve's clothes he still has at home from Halloween, jammed underneath his drawers and hidden out of sight from his father. That same bundle that he hadn’t washed since, because it smelled like Harrington and his stupid laundry soap — it was comforting as much Billy would never admit that.

The underwear Steve’s left him are plaid and so rich mummy’s boy material, that he'd laugh if he had the energy. The fabric of the joggers is soft but not nearly as soft as the jumper he tugs over his head; it's a little long in the sleeves but snug elsewhere. Billy thinks he can remember Steve wearing once at school.

Wet hair clings to his head, he scrubs at it with the towel before creeping out of the bathroom, glancing out in the hallway like he's expecting someone there. Steve's parents, maybe. He’s used to creeping around his own house.

Follows the light along the corridor until he reaches the living room where Steve's sat at the fireplace, tossing some more coal on it. 

He's engulfed in the warmth that he feels to his bones, as soon as he steps a foot in the room. It’s the warmest he’s been in a long time.

Steve doesn't notice him at first and Billy stands there at the doorway, watching the shadows of flames flickering over the other’s face. The slight jolt in his entire body when he turns to see him stood there. He suddenly gets up to his feet. 

"Hey, sit down." He moves to the sofa, sits and pats the space beside him until Billy reluctantly moves towards it. 

Steve's wearing a fresh set of clothes too, almost the exact same as the ones he'd laid out for Billy, except they're a couple shades darker. He looks considerably...better. Less sticky and haggard, breath fresh with coffee that Billy spies on the table. 

"I uh, made you hot cocoa." 

He sees the second mug, one with some kind of Christmas pattern sprawled over it and a heap of cream barely held back by the rim of the mug. Wants to laugh but instead grunts.

"...thanks." 

The tv plays to itself, neither of them really paying attention to the shitty movie that’s on, too busy tip-toeing around each other like they're both glass leaning over the edge of a cabinet. 

Billy's stomach grumbles. He’d skipped out of the house before he could even have dinner, not wanting Max to see red marks Neil had given him and too pissed to sit at the table pretending that Neil hadn’t just beat him up in his room. Neil hadn't even tried to stop him leaving. 

He eyes the pizza in the box on the coffee table, stomach growling a little louder but he reaches for the cocoa instead, downing a few mouthfuls before he sets it back down again. 

Steve’s watching him, gesturing a the pizza with a shrug. "Go ahead, man. I'm not gonna eat it after...you know.”

He doesn’t want to ask again, if Steve’s sure, he is trying to make amends but he isn’t all that polite around Steve — never has been. Leans over and reaches for a slice, shovelling it into his mouth before he can let out a whine at the ache that twinges in his chest. Steve watches and he grunts a muffled _what_ over his chewing. 

But Steve just shrugs, saying nothing as he turns his attention to the tv.

At least half of Steve's pizza is in Billy’s belly when he finishes up, during his hands over the borrowed sweatpants on his body. He picks up his cocoa and chugs on it before setting it down the empty mug again. 

Steve’s mug of coffee is still three-quarters full but he still asks if Billy wants some more. 

He shakes his head, despite the cocoa not being enough of a sugar high to scratch at the itch under his skin, as his brain presses for the bitter punch of nicotine that he hasn't had in so long — _over four months._

Then he thinks about the leftover fruit chews that were in his leather jacket pockets, the jacket that's still sat in a wet soaking mess on Steve's bathroom floor, how they’ve probably gone all mushy with the heat of the bathroom. He frowns.

Steve's picking up his own mug, settling it in his hands above the blanket: the blanket that Billy had pulled over himself without realising, the blanket they’re sharing over their laps.

"Are we going to talk about what happened?" Steve asks quietly after a few moments pass.

And Billy grunts, drawling out a long, huff in response. Then pulls the blanket up to his chin, staring at the tv and refusing to give in to the relentless look he's getting burnt into the side of his face by Harrington.

Steve goes back to watching the tv after that, doesn't say another word and neither does Billy. He crams his neck into the crack of the cushions behind him and he's succumbing to the void of sleep before he can even stop himself. 

Steve wakes up to the sound of the tv still playing and muttering from the in hallway, something spikes his way up his throat because Billy's moved; no longer at his side encased in the grey blanket they'd been sharing. 

A groan falls from his mouth involuntarily — _his terribly dried-up mouth._ God, there was truly nothing worse than the coffee breath he had right now, that and the faint hint of sick he could still taste on his tongue too. He downs the rest of his cold coffee and ruffles a hand through his hair.

Out of the window, the sky's still dark out and rain’s still hammering the ground, cracks of thunder still loud over the tv. He groans again, only imagining what ungodly hour it was.

He yawns, his entire body shaking with exhaustion. It was the most decent semi-sleep he’d had in a while. 

He unties himself from the blanket and lifts his brows at the freshly stoked fire. Maybe Billy wasn't up to no good like he first originally thought. _Or maybe he is,_ he thinks, as he hears him like a crescendo from the hallway. 

And the idea of him wandering aimlessly around Steve's house is less than thrilling, somehow Billy talking about something out loud is even worse. He gets up hurriedly, mind springing to his dad's liquor cabinet full of the expensive shit. Then his mother's antiques in their shared office, how some of the dust-ridden crap in there was irreplaceable; how Billy's probably juiced and pottering around Steve's house like he owns the damned place.

Steps into the hallway, thinking about how fucked he is if the other teen's broken anything, how expensive his dad's liquor was to replace and how pissed he’ll be if he finds out any of it’s gone, but Billy's just stood there…

The house telephone in his hand as he leans against the wall, a thunderous look plastered on his face as he practically barks down the phone.

"...it's _not_ like that—okay, fuck you too. You don't know jackshit about me, I haven’t touched him—" 

Steve's insides turn cold, a deep pit welling in his stomach because _god help him_ if Hargrove's talking to his parents like that. What they’ll think if Steve’s got _a boy_ over, who’s saying words like that to them. 

He snags the phone from Billy's grip hastily.

"Who's this?" He asks, voice cold and stony because he’s so freaking screwed. 

" _Steve!_ " 

And he thanks every higher-being he can think of. 

"Nance?" 

" _Are you okay Steve? God, that asshole—has he hurt you again?_ "

Steve glances in Billy's direction, sees how arms fold over himself like a toddler with a temper. He spits back loud enough to be heard over the phone, "I can still hear you, Wheeler! I fuckin’ already told you once that I haven’t—" 

He palms Billy's tricep tightly, shoving him away when he steps closer, like he's gonna fight Nancy through the phone or some shit. 

"The hell are you talking about, Nance?" He hates the croakiness in his voice, tips him just a little into being even more grouchy.

She hisses audibly over the phone and explains, " _I'm staying at the Byers. Max called, said that Billy got in his car and left. She said she knew exactly where he was going—to your house, Steve! Hopper's already on his way, I've been ringing for the last hour. I've been worried about you..._ " 

And Steve puts a clenched fist to the wall, Billy quietening beside him. 

Nancy was always so fucking clueless, no matter how much better she did in her exams than Steve, and how her future was perfectly laid out in journalism after the fake Hawkins Lab scandal she wrote about, she was so dumb sometimes. 

"Nancy...everything's fine." 

His relationship with her had been...rocky, recently. 

She was always too busy with Jonathan or work to hang with him, too self-absorbed in her very own middle-class office she'd set up, all cushy with her boyfriend who took stupid pictures for their paper that had gained popularity since the scandal was released by them. 

Her and Jonathan had visited Family Video a couple of times and Steve knew they had no intentions of renting a movie, that they were just checking on him like he was a kid that needed babysitting. 

She'd seen his face, the crack on his nose and the knuckle-shaped marks spread over his cheeks and jaw; she'd blown like a fuse, demanding that Steve told her who did it. Though, she already guessed it on second attempt after Tommy H. thanks to his and Billy’s the dust up a year earlier.

Nancy was iron-willed, she wouldn't listen when Steve — or Robin — tried to explain that it wasn't Billy's fault, even if he did do it. 

It was difficult too, Steve didn't want to step on Hargrove's toes and tell his ex-girlfriend about how Billy wasn't as okay as he seemed after July 4th — how he had some kind of panic attack or flashback and Steve just happened to be there to take the force of it.

Plus, Nancy was oblivious about Billy's turbulent relationship with his dad, like Steve should have been, so he couldn't exactly blurt out everything Max explained to him in Billy's defence. 

So, yeah, things were rickety between them. 

" _How is everything fine, Steve?_ ” She asks. “ _That piss-stain beat you up twice! Now he's at your house and—screw this. I'm coming over...Jonathan get the car keys—_ "

The phone's wrenched away from his ear before he gets the chance to scream no at her, tell her she needs to keep her perfect button nose out of his business, as Billy's icy grip wraps around Steve's hand. He pulls the phone to his own ear and mouth, yells, 

"Fuck you, Wheeler!" as he hangs the phone back on the wall mount with a slam. 

Steve huffs with a hand to his head. 

It's ass o'clock in the morning and his ex-girlfriend is now probably pissed at him, he's got the Chief of police on his way to his house — _the neighbours were going to talk, probably rat him out to his parents_ — and there's this look on Billy's face that makes his heart ache in his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We finna get some Harringrove eventually lmao


	6. Paroxysm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oof we getting some harringrove slowly

It's amusing really, well, at least it would have been if Steve hadn't been woken up at two in the morning for this shit; listening as Hopper and Jonathan tried to explain to Steve — who's _not_ supposed to know about Billy's dad — why they're taking Billy away into Steve's kitchen with a camera and a notepad in their hands.

Instead, he's just pissed off that he got disturbed whilst having some of the best sleep he'd had in a long time. That and the thought of the next time he sees Nancy she was going to be all kinds of fire-breathing pissed. Alone, that thought brings a growing sinking feeling.

He can practically hear her voice: _you let Hargrove in your house, are you crazy Steve, did you hear what he said to me?!_ Blah, blah, blah. 

Then Jonathan informs him that he and Hop convinced her to stay at the Byers' by telling her that _Steve_ didn't want her there, so he was definitely in hot water with her. 

He slams the front door behind the two of them as they leave. The assholes made a mess of his kitchen with crumbled pretzels everywhere and spilt coffee that they'd helped themselves to — no way Steve was cleaning that up this late.

Billy starts acting even more temperamental and uptight than usual after that, retreating to the living room and just sitting there, in the spot he'd been in a few hours ago — like nothing ever happened. 

Steve stares, waits for him to do something, say something — _anything_ — but there's just radio silence in the room, so he turns the tv off and sends an expectant look in the blonde's direction.

"So...are we going to talk about what just happened here?" 

Billy grunts, his eyes unmoving from the now blank screened tv, "No."

"Great," Steve says flatly. If Billy didn't want to talk, then fine. But he certainly wasn't going to be coaching him through his next panic attack or post-beating shitty mood he was in. He smacks his hands together, "it's bed time then—we don't have all day to sleep."

"Oh, I'm _really_ sorry for disturbing your fuckin' beauty sleep, Harrington." Billy bites back, abruptly rising to his feet with a grey, furry ball of fabric tangled in his arms. "I'll make sure to get beaten up at a more convenient time for you next time." 

Steve rolls his eyes, hands folding over his chest. "I didn't mean it like that."

Billy's moving then, narrowly avoiding bashing his shins on the coffee table as he storms over to Steve, stopping mere inches away. His face looking somehow worse this close, the purple forming around his eye and swelling. "No my bad, Mr Rich-Boy. Didn't mean to ruin your sleep or your perfect goddamned life." 

"Now c'mon, it's not like that—"

"Oh _please,_ do tell me about your hardships — sweaters that aren't soft enough or is it that you can't get your shitty fancy coffee at the store?"

Steve snaps. Blows his lid from the sleepy bitterness raging from inside, breaks his pinky promise. "Listen—It's not _my_ fault your dad hits you, okay! I didn't have to answer the door to you and let you in, look after you at this ungodly hour...My nosey bitch of a next door neighbour is going to tell my parents that the chief of police paid me a visit, how the hell am I going to explain that, Billy?" 

He exhales, letting out a sharp breath.

_Fuck._

He broke his pinky promise. Yelled at a guy who was beaten up merely hours ago — by his own dad. 

Billy's turns face hard, his eyes turning into narrow slits. He moves painfully slow, bare feet smacking to the wooden floor and stops inches from Steve, studies his face with a thin line for lips. Then says, "Go to hell, Harrington." and disappears. 

Steve hears a door slam, that he hopes — _god, he hopes_ — isn't the front door. Knowing that if Billy left, he'd have no place to go except for the hellhole he calls his home and Steve couldn't, _wouldn't_ let that happen. 

He chases after him, his own bare feet thudding against the linoleum of his hallway, bolting up the stairs after he sees the blonde curls heading up there.

Shouts, his name over and over again but he's too late once he reaches the top of the stairs, the guest room door closing with a bang. The lock clicks into place and Steve smacks into it, knowing it won't budge. 

"I'm sorry, okay? God, I'm such a dick—I didn't..." he lets his forehead thump against the door, breathes out a long sigh knowing Billy won't let him in. He doesn't reply either.

Steve slumps against the hallway wall after a few more fruitless attempts to eat his words. Sits there for more an hour or so until his back starts to ache and then trudges to his room, joints clicking as he gets up. 

He leaves his bedroom door wide open and climbs into his icebox of a bed but doesn't sleep and the guest room is empty when he checks the following morning.

|°|°|°|

Dustin picks up on his older friend's gloom the instant he climbs into the Beamer. Dials the radio down a fetch notches and struggles as he unravels himself from the bundle of outerwear material Mrs Henderson had forced on him before he left the house. 

Steve doesn't comment like he normally would whenever Dustin touched his controls, instead drives on without even so much as a look in the kid's direction and the occasional heavy breaths falling out of his mouth.

Dustin's a pretty outspoken kid — not afraid when he brazenly asks, "who killed your cat?" 

That earns him a look, one where Steve's eyes turn all cold and stormy, lips drawn into a flat line. Maybe it was too soon after D'Artagnan's face opened up and ate Mews, still he snorts to himself, even if he'd be dead if his mother were to ever find out. 

"Seriously, dude. Did someone die?" He asks, tearing his coat of and shoving it to the footwell. He knows Steve wouldn't be having a movie night if his parents were home, so it's not that.

Steve's eyes snap back to the road ahead of him that's getting coated in snow, the same pissy look on his face, and Dustin watches the road too only taking his eyes away when Steve turns a corner. 

"Did Nancy and Jonathan get engaged?" 

Steve's jaw clicks. "What? _No._ I don't like Nancy anymore, so I wouldn't care if—and nobody died either, Dustin." At least he hoped not...

"Okay, well...did your parents call or somethin'?" 

"Do they ever call?" Steve counters as he pulls into his drive. 

"I dunno, guess not."

It'd been week or so since Steve broke his stupid pinky promise and he hadn't seen the blonde or his sister since. He was waiting to see Max, for her to explode and yell at him like he deserved for slipping up to Billy of all people — he was never going to trust Max again after she told him about Neil.

He cuts the engine off, yanking his handbrake up as Dustin climbs out. Hope still hanging around his mind that Dustin wouldn't pester him for a few hours and instead just watch the movies and eat snacks until he dropped him back off. 

Dustin throws his coat on the floor in the hallway, the house warm enough for him to run around in a t-shirt. Irritable, Steve scoops it up and hooks it on the hangers near the door before following the kid, who's bouncing his way into the living room. 

He stops at the door, wide-eyed as he peers into the room. 

"Steve...what's with all the mess? I swear it looks worse than Mike's basement in here. What would Mrs Harrington say?" 

Steve grumbles back, moving into the room to push the pizza boxes aside as he flicks the tv on. "Yvonne wouldn't say shit because she's never here and I've seen your room, Dustin, it's a _thousand_ times worse than this."

He snorts knowingly and throws himself onto the sofa, then puts his feet up on the coffee table nudging the unwashed mugs out of his way. There's a crease in the sofa next to him and he wonders how long Steve had been sat in it to create it. 

"You bought pretzels, right?" 

Steve disappears, then returns with an entire bag that he launches at Dustin's head with the first crack of a smile he's seen all night. 

"So do you want to watch Back to the Future, ET or Ghostbusters first? Wait, did you get any other tapes?" Dustin asks over a mouthful stuffed with pretzels already.

Steve sits beside him, back in the furrow his ass had created. "Well," he grabs a handful of the things and shoves them into his mouth, "I only got them ones and I'm feeling a bit of Marty McFly first tonight, are you?" 

Dustin snorts. "Sure. Wouldn't you like a piece of that guy, Stevie, huh?" He springs up from the sofa sorting through the tapes until he finds Back to the Future and slots it carefully into the player. 

Steve doesn't reply. McFly was good-looking fellow but Dustin didn't need to know Steve thinks that.

Their movie night ends when Dustin starts to fall asleep just as E.T asks to phone home, so Steve rounds up the kid's stuff up and the pretzels, gives them to him as a bribe for the little shit to get in the Beamer. 

Mrs Henderson smiles warmly at him from the front door and waves once Dustin's tucked safely back in her house. Steve waves back, a coy smile as he pulls away to drive home.

He thinks when he gets home he'll crack open a beer and maybe down something for his head that's starting to pound because Dustin talks _loud_ and plays the tv even louder. 

The snow and ice forming on the roads have other plans for him though, as he skids, tyres losing the minimal grip they had on the tarmac. He slams his brakes on to avoid swerving into the one other car and squeals at the near miss. His dad would be furious if he came home to a bashed Beamer. The car grinds to a halt, finally, and he pulls over to the curb behind a parked car, breathing ragged.

 _That was really fucking close,_ he thinks. 

He has an iron-grip on the steering wheel, panting as he looks up. There's a baby blue car parked in front one that he recognises easily even in the darkness and under the icy layers of white snow. 

It's Billy's Camaro. The engine's humming with a purr but it's not moving, and the windows are clouded over so thickly that Steve barely sees the blond curls in the front seat.

He furrows his brows and zips his jacket up.

They weren't down Old Cherry Lane and the car didn't look like it had been moved in a long while. 

He cuts the life to his own engine, climbing out with a hiss when the air bites his hands and face. The snow crunches under his sneakers as he makes his way over, tapping on the driver's window with his knuckles.

Billy jolts, head spinning to meet Steve's eyes through the blurry condensation of the window. He rolls it down to stop the persistent hammering from the other's bony knuckles.

"Are you trying to give me a goddamned heart attack, Harrington?" He snaps bitterly.

He's pissed for several reasons. Firstly at Max for blabbing to Steve Harrington but more pressingly at the guy himself for telling him straight he guesses. He'd been right because Billy wasn't Steve's problem, he was just helping because Billy showed up on his doorstep and that ruffled something deep inside Billy.

Steve doesn't say anything, delving his hands in the pockets of his grey jacket as he leans back. The street lamps make the bags under his eyes heavier than they had been a week earlier.

"The hell do you want?"

He huffs, his breath spilling a warm cloud into the air. Billy shivers. "What are you doing out here?"

Billy doesn't reply, plucking at the clothes on his body. Steve notices them, the skinny jeans and sweater that's actually his not Billy's. Then he sees more clothes — not on Billy — sprawled all over the passenger seat and a blanket in the back seat. 

"Have you been...sleeping in here?" 

"No." 

He had for the last few nights but now he was running on an almost empty tank after using his heaters too much. 

"Don't lie to me, Billy."

He hadn't spoken to Neil after he got home from Harrington's a week back, creeping into the house whilst everyone was still asleep and shutting his bedroom door behind him. Max had slid into his room silently a few hours later, at nearly six in the morning and sat at his vanity without a single comment on the clothes he was wearing that were Steve's. 

They talked about the case in hushed voices until they heard Susan and Neil stirring for work, when Max left to help them make breakfast. He slid out of Harrington's clothes and dumped them down the side of his bed, hidden out of sight. 

Still, Neil didn't speak to him until a day or so later when he got home from a lousy shift at the bank and he'd built up all his rage to take out on Billy. 

The hits came down hot and ruthless, a booted foot to his ribs and neck — places Billy could easily hide them — knocking the air from his lungs and forming tender bruises.

It took him an hour or so to pick himself up from the floor afterwards, gathering an armful of clothes and money he'd stuffed into his pockets. Ignored Max calling after him as he left, climbing into his car with a hiss and pressing his foot to the floor. 

He hadn't been home since and had already cycled through most of his money and clothes. The last clean sweater he threw on still smelled like Harrington and his stupid almond-scented soap, the soft material probably cashmere that enveloping his body. 

He'd kill for some cashmere sweaters of his own or even just a hoodie if he were honest; the leather and denim jackets weren't cutting it in the bitter climate of Hawkins.

"Billy." 

" _What?_ " He hisses back.

"Will just listen to me, please." 

Billy frowns as he peels his eyes away from the gauge hovering almost on the red line. Harrington's shivering a little and Billy shudders just watching the snow land in his hair. 

"I'm sorry, okay? I didn't mean to be such an asshole the other night and even though I didn't have to look after you...but I—uh would like to, if you'll let me."

He pulls on the sleeves of Steve's sweater, craving some warmth around his blueing fingertips and refuses to meet Steve's eyes. He doesn't want Steve's pity.

The snow filters it's way in through the open window and lands on the sweater, making a tiny wet patch.

"So...what do you say?" he asks finally after a pause.

Billy wipes up the little areas of wetness over the dash with his sleeve, wincing at the tenderness moving brought to his body. Then finally, he looks at Harrington and the steady look of hope buried in his eyes. He pulls on the rings around his fingers, twisting them until Steve's stare is too intense to ignore.

"Okay..." he faintly settles for. 

Steve smiles, hands reaching for Billy's shoulder to squeeze gently. "You can crash at my place for as long as you need to." Then his warm touch is gone, heading back to his Beamer. 

A playful smile works its way onto Billy's face as he calls after him, "drive safely, Harrington." 

Steve merely scoffs.


End file.
